Risk

 

A flurry of crimson leaves, a sneaky grin. Rewind, I’m moving backwards. It’s all rushing by me, like images on an old-fashioned film reel. I imagined the frames clicking as I wondered how we got here. We held hands and leaped into the lake, breaking the surface. Breaking something. The forest and the path with its brambles and bright orange berries flash before my eyes.

Brace and I had driven a couple of hours outside Halifax at Kedjikjumik Park—I had a flair for hiking and exploring. My parents used to take my sister Trish and me there when we were younger—back when they used to love each other. It was the only untainted vacation spot from my childhood; it was free of screaming, tears, and bitter words. Crushed soda cans and empty bags of potato chips were nowhere to be found.

It was a beautiful day.  

“Hey, Brace, I dare you to eat one of these funky berries,” I said, wiggling a twig in front of his face.

“Oh, hell no. Remember what happened when you tricked me into eating that catnip? Two days of digestive torment, Aria—all your fault.” He scrunched up his nose, shaking his head at me.

“Hahaha! What a great prank; I forgot about that. But that was catnip. This, on the other hand, is a berry—no cat or nip anywhere.” I grinned, brushing my wavy black hair out of my eyes.  

“Alllllllright. Just for you though. And if I die, you know what I said about my funeral—I want a keg and a Slip N’ Slide. It’s your job to make it happen”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Can you imagine the headlines for that one? Twenty-six year-old man dies from lethal neon berries after his lady-friend violently forces them down his throat.”

I sighed. “It will all get so skewed in the papers.”

Brace glanced at me inquisitively, breaking into a half-grin, his left cheek dimpling. He sat on a wide stump next to the berry bush, elbows on knees, drawing in the dirt with a jagged stick. He seemed to be puzzled by something I’d said. “You know…” he started, “You can call yourself my girlfriend, if you want. I mean, you pretty much are; I’m not seeing anyone else…you’re not seeing anyone else?”

“Ahh, c’mon now, you know I don’t subscribe to those silly titles. Besides, lady-friend is much more age appropriate. “Girlfriend” makes me think of high school or Justin Timberlake, one of the two. And, if you must know, I ‘see’ people every day. The girls wouldn’t be able to handle it if I said I couldn’t spend time with them anymore, sorry babe.”

He chuckled, shaking his head. I stepped over to him, wrapped my arm around his scruffy head, and gave him a good old-fashioned noogie. Noogies annoy the hell out of him. He swung his arm around my waist, pulling me into his lap, but I fell to the ground instead and brought him down with me. We flipped onto our backs, the brisk air rustling through the leaves, a patchy pattern of light and shadows dancing around us. 

Brace told me to meet him a couple days later: 1:00am, apple orchard. We met in the middle where we’d stuck a little flag by the Golden Russets—our spot. I knew what he wanted to tell me, but I wasn’t ready. When I was in college a few years ago, I swore to myself that I’d never jeopardize my heart by putting them in someone else’s hands. 

We walked towards each other; the moon’s glow traced his broad muscular shoulders, lean waist, and narrow hips. He gazed at me, and I was entranced by his unshakable evenness. He came closer, the overgrown grass swishing with each step. I whipped out my handy pocket flashlight and shone it at Brace—he shut one eye, scrunching up the side of his face.

“Hey, you,” he said, slapping my butt. “I know we usually come here to uhh…do fun stuff…which we can still do, but…” He looked antsy, glancing over his shoulders as if he was looking for a place to hide. “Anyways, I’ve gotta to tell you something, and I don’t care if you wanna hear it. I can’t pretend we have some casual-dating thing—it’s much more to me than that…”

Anxiety boiled up in the pit of my stomach. As I stared at the ground, I felt my life pause at a place where I wasn’t sure where to go or what to do next; I was frozen in the surrounding air. Brace squeezed my hand and my life sped forward before I was ready to hit play.

I let go of his hand and turned away from him, shaking my head. “No…no…” Something inside me screamed “Too close,” and my heart thudded against the bars of my ribcage. “I just…I can’t. I’m sorry.” I peeked over my shoulder at his face: strong jaw, lips slightly parted, eyes lost in shadow and fear.

“I’m not Jack, Aria. I could never treat you the way he treated you...” He was trying to be comforting, but those last words were what pushed me over the edge. I bolted. I didn’t stop, didn’t look back. Brace didn’t call my name, didn’t follow me. He understood why I ran, even though he didn’t want me to.

I couldn’t answer his phone calls; when I listened to the voicemails I felt a twinge of shock, then nothing—like when pebbles are tossed in a well, the surface ripples then returns to normal. I was shocked at the progression of my insensitivity, my revulsion toward tenderness. A tear teetered on the edge of my eyelid, but didn’t fall.

I went to visit my sister in Mississagua; I needed to get away from the visual reminders that seeped into my thoughts like toxic ooze. I couldn’t stay in Halifax right now. Glancing up at the mirror as I packed my toothbrush in a toiletry bag, I hardly recognized the pair of jasper brown eyes staring back at me.

*****

I’d just finished an awkward dinner of frozen pizza with my sister and her husband, Stan. Tension filled the room—not because of anything they said to each other, but because of the hollow indifference that lingered in their words. Trish was twenty-eight, a few years older than me. We’d always been pretty close—partly because we had to be.  Together, we could drown the hatred in the house. On my seventh birthday, my mom had bought me a bowling set with two sets of plastic pins and multicolored balls. Whenever our parents locked themselves in their room, Trish and I would pelt the plastic balls at the wall, plugging our ears with are fingers, wailing at the top of our lungs to drown out the fighting.

As I sat at the mahogany desk in the guestroom editing articles for the Chronicle Herald, I heard Stan and Trish’s voices rising at the end of the hall.

“Trish, I told you--I’m not seeing anything that doesn’t have Al Pacino or Robert De Niro in it.”

“So you’re only going to the movies when those guys have one out? What about when they die? What then? No movies?”

“I don’t really feel like dealing with hypothetical situations right now, but I’d be happy to continue this discussion if you give me something other than dumb speculation.”

“We never go out anymore though—are you embarrassed of me? I’m sorry I’ve put on a few pounds, that nothing I do makes you happy anymore, that, that…”

“You’re being ridiculous.”

“Stop saying that. You always say that. Is it really too much to ask? All I want is to go out every once in a while, to spend time with you. Is it really that hard for you to do something so little, something that makes me happy? Apparently that’s not a good enough reason for you.” Her voice quivered.

“Or I just don’t want to go, and you’re making a huge deal out of nothing.”

Trish flopped onto her bed, her muffled sobs barely audible from my room. I was marking up an article about the Toronto Maple Leafs when my sister’s pained words shattered the silence. The door slammed as her husband, Stan, left the bedroom—stairs creaking under his weight, the hinges of the front door squeaking as it opened. A car door slammed, and I heard the chug of his Ford Explorer fading into the distance.Arguments like this happened every time I visited.  

Stan was heading to the bar to get drunk, to get numb. To forget he had a wife and responsibilities. He wasn’t dumb enough to drive back drunk, but he’d sleep in his car tonight—chilly, alone. He wanted to feel the kind of alone I couldn’t escape from.

Gently, I tapped on my sister’s door, “Trish, you all right?”

I heard her kick off her comforter and walk towards me. She buried her face in the base of my neck, not bothering to hide her grief. She was 5’1, a good 5 inches shorter than I, her frizzy auburn hair hanging around her head. She leaned against me, her arms weakly clasped around my stomach. That was probably all she needed—a little support, someone on her side, not that my presence eliminated her sadness, but I hoped it’d have a calming effect.

After several minutes she stumbled backwards, eyes glinting with a green fury. Her cheeks and nose were splotchy and red, eyes rimmed with a sore pink, salty lashes clumped together. She was wearing a baggy green T-shirt with a few bleach spots on it, and I recognized her navy sweatpants from college; the white font on the pant leg that said ‘Acadia class of 2001” was a dead giveaway.

“I can’t do this anymore. I can’t even talk to him. My words are useless. Everything I say—useless, empty. I don’t have any power anymore. I don’t have anything. I don’t even have me anymore. At least you have you.”

I studied Trish, not knowing what to say. I didn’t get the chance to say anything.

“I’m tired,” she whispered, backing through her bedroom door. “So tired.”

*****

Trish had gotten her undergrad degree at Acadia in Wolfville—a cute little town boasting a population of about 3,500 people. Preferring big cities, I headed to York University in Toronto. During my first couple years I took a bunch of random classes to fulfill my distribution requirements. Some of my classes—political science and philosophy—ended up being a waste of time. But, I was pleasantly surprised by others. 

Women’s Studies, Sexuality in Western Culture. Third row, middle section.

“The Mehinaku believe romantic love is a creation of ‘white man’. They marry, but the concept of “being in love”, as we perceive it, doesn’t exist in their culture.” Interesting. My professor, Mr. Lawton, had the same voice as the narrator in dessert commercials—deep, sumptuous, tailored to say things like “decadent” and “covered in layers of milk chocolate”

A girl in one of the back rows raised her hand, stretching her arm as if she was about to blast off through the roof with it. “So how do we know if it’s real?” she asked.

Leaning on the podium, Mr. Lawton scratched his head and set down his glasses. I wondered how he could see through them; the lenses were as thick as bullet-proof glass. “Good question. Well, it’s something to think about. Whether they feel that kind of love is hard to say. They may feel it and not express it. Or the idea of romantic love may be so ingrained in our culture that we’re incapable of envisioning life without it. Is love innate, inexplainable? Or is it an illusion? Be ready to discuss these questions on Friday.”

I looked up at the clock: two fifty-nine. Students squirm in their seats, zipping up backpacks, putting binders away, wriggling into coats and cardigans. I rose from my seat and edged towards the end of the row. There were about 300 students in the lecture, only a handful absent. It was my last class of the day, and I left feeling slightly more cynical than I had an hour earlier. The ground was frosted with a layer of snow—whipped by the wind so that it looked like the top of a cupcake. My gigantic fluffy boots caught some glances as I walked across campus. Ordinarily, I would’ve been thrilled—I loved those boots—but today, memories started to bite, and I didn’t want the attention.  Uneasiness crept into my throat, threatening my composure. I yanked a pack of Djarum Blacks out of my gold sequined purse. The cigarette crackled when I took a drag—the spicy smell of cloves filled my nostrils as I hurried home to get out of the bitter cold. My poise was on the verge of cracking, but the chemicals in the cigarette managed to create a kind of calm.  

At home, I wrapped my roommate’s fuzzy blanket around me and plopped onto the blue suede couch, curling into a little ball and hanging my head between my knees. For a moment, the hum of the humidifier separated me from my thoughts. Dammed by shaky self-control, my rising emotions wouldn’t hold much longer.   

He cheated. Twice.

Rewind, the first time. Jack and I were sitting on the edge of his untidy bed—I was huddled against him, crying. I didn’t have much to say. A pulsing sadness beat through me, and I didn’t know when it would stop. And I didn’t know what would happen when it did stop—it felt like a living part of me.

He was crying too. At the time, I thought his face reflected remorse—now I see pity. “I promise I could never do that to you again; I never wanna make you this sad again.”

“Why didn’t you just tell me the truth? You just dumped me, saying it was the age gap, that it just wasn’t working. How fucking stupid do you think I am? We’re only two years apart, and we never fought, did you expect me to buy that? Would you have even told me if I hadn’t guessed?” I stared into his dark brown eyes, searching for an answer. No. He wouldn’t have told me.

“It was a mistake, I’m sorry. Trust me—it was a stupid thing. I love you. You know I love you” he murmured, looking at me like a dog he’d accidentally kicked on the way to the kitchen.

Did he love me? I doubted it. I doubted that someone who loved me would have sex with his ex-girlfriend while we were dating. Was Jack’s ‘love’ pulling me so close to him that when he tripped, my body cushioned his fall as we slammed against the concrete?

I was weak. “Well if it ever happens again…will you at least promise to tell me? Instead of making me think it’s my fault, that I did something wrong?”

“I promise.” Satisfaction swept across his face as he leaned back on a pile of pillows, patting the space next to him.  

As the tears rolled down my cheeks, what pained me the most was that the person who’d hurt me was the only one who could fix it. I gave him another chance.

Shame on me.

The next time was worse. We’d been dating for three years—no incidents for two years and eight months. I’d lost my virginity, lost my pride. I’d been over the images so many times in my head that they felt real—as if I’d been in the room watching them fuck. There are no pleasantries in the word, in all the wrong ways people do it. All this time I was mistaken—imagining I was making love, doing something special, with someone special. Jack fucked Tracy, Tracy fucked Jack; but in the end, I was the one getting fucked. I felt sick, physically sick—I thought of Tracy’s skinny little body on top of his tall lean one. I was going to puke. I was going to puke.

 “If it makes things any better, I was really drunk, and she came on to me.”

“Isn’t that what your dad said when he ran over that woman on a bicycle?”

He reached for my hand, grazing my fingertips before I could jerk away. My skin crawled. “Don’t fucking touch me. You fucking disgust me,” I spat. There was nothing left to say—I whirled around and strode towards the door. He hurried after me, clutching my forearm and turning me to face him. Bad idea. He opened his mouth to speak and I slammed my fist into his jaw.   

*****

Stan and Trish are getting a divorce. Naturally, I’m going to help her pack and move into her new apartment, about an hour away from Mississagua. It’s been two months since I last saw Brace. I’d sent him an email saying I was sorry, but that was all. After arriving at the Halifax airport I find gate 24A and plop down on one of the silvery padded seats to wait for my 10:00 am flight. I’m a couple hours early, doing a “Big N’ Fun” crossword and sipping on a hazelnut cappuccino. I haven’t missed a flight since my best friend and I took a trip to Las Vegas after graduation. That was almost four years ago now—I’m twenty-six, almost twenty-seven. I’m single, successful, and happy—even if I do miss Brace. My dad had always told me to live my own dream, not someone else’s. He didn’t take his own advice, and he got a divorce. And it’s the same thing with Trish. I mean, she sacrificed so much for Stan. And for what? They’ve only been married for three years, long enough for them to realize how much they can’t stand each other.

Suddenly, someone blocks the light, halting the progress of my crossword puzzle. Expecting the person to find a seat, I keep my eyes fixed on 49 across. The shadow doesn’t budge. As I glance up, 49-across vanishes from my thoughts.

It’s him. It’s Brace.

As he opens his mouth to speak, I blurt “What are you doing here?”

He sticks out his hand robotically. “Hi, my name is Brace. It’s nice to see you too.” I ignore his sarcastic jab and he plops down in the seat next to me. “My parents live in the city, remember? And Thanksgiving’s in a couple days so I don’t have to work. What are you doing here? But what I should really be asking you is why the hell you ran away from me.” I forgot about the holiday—I hadn’t celebrated it with my family since I was nine, right before my parents got a divorce. Trish and Stan had invited me out a couple of times, but I’m sure it was the last thing on her mind right now. Holidays didn’t mean much to us, since they usually ended in disaster.

“Trish is getting a divorce, actually. And my brain told me to run, so I ran.” My explanation was only a scratch on the surface of the problem. There were so many reasons why my brain had told me to run.

“Well I’m not sure you should listen to your brain so much, Ari.” He turns towards me and gazes at me, his gray eyes clear and searching.

“What else am I supposed to listen to? Please don’t say my heart. I’ve heard that so many times in terrible chick flicks that I think I might puke. Thoughts don’t come from a blood-pumping muscle in my chest, although it’s an idea that would’ve seemed plausible back when the earth was flat.” I cross my arms and lean back in my seat, looking at some point in space above the rows of body-filled airport chairs.

“You got me there. But I shouldn’t have to defend myself on this one. What you did to me was exactly what you’re scared people will do to you if you get too close to them. I shouldn’t be wasting time talking to you. All I got from you was a shitty apology letter.”

I stare at my left foot, marveling at how fast the black laces on my Vans are jiggling.

“You know…even if you don’t want to go into your reasons about your parents or Jack or whatever, can’t you just tell me why you didn’t show me any respect? I never did anything to hurt you.”

“But you would’ve.”

“How can you even say that? I’m taking the same risk as you. Don’t you realize that? Anyone, in any relationship, can get hurt. This girl, Anna, told a story on the radio yesterday about how she caught her mom hooking up with her boyfriend. Does that mean families can’t trust each other?” He rubs his forehead and sighs. “Do you think we’re all supposed to be alone? That sounds pretty fucking lonely.”

My guts reminded me of the Big Bang before the Bang, tightly balled below my ribs. After this last spiel, they expanded slightly. “Her mom? Jesus. What did she say about that?”

“She said she’d always love her mom.” He glances over at me and I gape at him, unable to understand how someone could be so forgiving. “Yeah, I know. Shocking, right? People are usually more forgiving towards their family members, but that’s just fucked up…Anyways, that’s not even the point. I don’t see why you won’t give me a chance when I haven’t even screwed you over.”

“I don’t know…” And I didn’t. What he was saying made sense but I wasn’t sure if I could forget everything I’d seen, everything I’d experience. It’s a lot easier said than done. “What if…what if we just started hanging out again? I like hanging out with you. But I can’t guarantee anything. I’m sorry for running, I really am. You didn’t deserve that. But forgetting the past is easier said than done.” I rub my thighs and shake my hair out of my face. I want to give him a chance. I wanted to give him a chance from the start. But when I actually got into something again it was a lot harder than I’d thought it would be.

“Promise not to run again?”

“I promise.” My mind shoots back to Jack, to when he promised. I wasn’t going to be Jack. Despite all the hatred and lying around me, I want to be good. They say if you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em—but I think that’s just giving up. I didn’t know if I could beat the world, if I could change anything. I didn’t know if he’d hurt me, or if I’d be happy with him a year from now. But I could try.

 “Flight 82 to Toronto, we are now boarding rows one through fifteen. I repeat, we are now boarding rows one through fifteen. Please come to the gate and have your ticket ready,” said the woman over the intercom. I sift through my purse to check my ticket. Row eight.

“Whatcha got, Brace?”

“Nine”

He stuck out his hand to help me up. I hesitated, my chest tight. Looking up at his steady gaze, a warm wave washed over me. Maybe everything will be all right. I reached for his hand, hoping it wasn’t too late.